The Art of the Farm
I grew up in a small farming town of about 500 people.
My dad was a third generation farmer, more accurately I should say “third generation in this country”. My great-grandparents on both sides were farmers in Scotland and England, and we really don’t know how many generations back, but several.
Unfortunately, our farm fell prey to the statistics of the 1980s, and we moved into town. In no way, explicit or implied, was there ever any notion of me someday taking over the farm. I had no desire or aptitude for it.
There’s a demographic concept called “elephant money”. It refers to the myth of the “elephant graveyard”, where elephants purportedly return to some secret spot to die. Over the past three or four decades, people have migrated away from rural areas and out to make their way in the world. Upon retirement , they often return to the places they grew up. The same town. Often the same neighbourhood. They return to the familiar and the nostalgic, to families, and their story.
I totally get it.
30 years later, and I can’t wait to move back to the farm life.
When I grow up, I know exactly the kind of farm I want. A barn with the hayloft and a rope swing. The air rich with the smell of growing things. Honest tomatoes and chickens. Grain dust and farmer’s tan. Watching the miracle of birth with my eventual grandchildren, just like my grandpa did with me.
I can’t wait.